


by the dawn's early light

by wordonawing



Series: you must not weep at all this [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7805281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordonawing/pseuds/wordonawing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can't make me laugh, I'm mad at you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	by the dawn's early light

**Author's Note:**

> there's a lot of handwaving with this au - essentially, enj is captain america, woken up post-freeze some time ago, and grantaire's a normal guy from the present who's very confused as to why this literal national icon is dating him, but there you go. there'll probably be more parts to this, including how they met and stuff.

"Hey."

Grantaire nearly falls out of his chair, which makes Enjolras laugh. His voice is rusty from disuse and creaks like an unoiled door hinge, but God damn it if it isn't the most beautiful sound Grantaire's ever heard.

Not that Grantaire’s gonna let him know that, of course, because he’s mad at him, so angry it’s making his teeth ache from all the gritting. Or at least it was, before Enjolras woke up and made Grantaire fall in love with him all over again, _damn his fucking eyes_.

Enjolras’s eyes make him think of the explosion.

The hail of shrapnel and chunks of glass from the blown-out windows above them.

The brace for impact, the split-second flash of _no not like this anything but this_.

The sudden darkness that his eyes took a few seconds to adjust to before they registered the shield like a stand-in sky above him, still wrapped around Enjolras's forearm.

The wave of relief so powerful he nearly fell to his knees, almost immediately chased out by mounting horror as he turned his head and realised, belatedly, where the shield wasn't.

He shakes his head from side to side and smoothes down a corner of the bed sheet, unable to look at Enjolras's bruised face, the care in the way he holds his left arm against his side, like it'll wander away if he lets it stray too far.

"I have to stay here tonight," Enjolras says, voice still scratchy (smoke inhalation, something in the back of Grantaire's head says, but he pushes it back into its drawer and locks it shut). "But I can come home tomorrow. It's not as bad as it looks." Grantaire darts his head up, and Enjolras’s face is twisted so ironically that he can’t help but gasp out a laugh, his lungs finally, finally feeling like they’ve got enough air.

"You can't make me laugh, I'm mad at you."

Enjolras gives him a mournful look, and oh, that's just not fair, he already looks like a Kennedy even in the light gray hoodie and sweatpants the hospital put him in.

"That's not fair," Grantaire says. "You know what those big blue eyes of yours do to me.” He flaps a hand around Enjolras’s face. “Turn off the puppying."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," says Enjolras, trying and failing to keep his face the picture of innocence.

"You know, for a guy whose motto is 'truth, justice, and the American way', you're really not very honest."

"Obviously you bring out the worst in me," Enjolras says.

“Or the best,” Grantaire points out.

“Or the best,” Enjolras agrees, scratching the scruff along his jaw thoughtfully. "Depends on where you're standing."

"There's the philosophical superhero we all know and love."

"He never went away." Enjolras's voice is steady, but his eyes are unsure, wary. That could just be the morphine doing weird things to his pupils, though.

"No," Grantaire allows, "he just nearly got himself killed protecting people. Again."

“‘People’.” Enjolras raises his hands to make air quotes and winces. Score one to karma. "You."

"Yeah, yeah, it was a romantic gesture, whatever." Enjolras opens his mouth and Grantaire holds up a hand. "Joking. Sheesh. All those years a Popsicle and you never developed a sense of humor?"

"I have an external one," Enjolras protests, half-indignantly.

"Add that to the list of unconventional endearments. 'External Sense of Humor'. Beautiful. You were wasted as a soldier, you should've been a poet or a writer or something."

"Grantaire."

"Or an artist. Don't think I haven't seen those sketches you leave around. It's sort of adorable how you think you're being all sneaky when really -"

"Grantaire." Enjolras takes his hand, which shuts him up. Holding Enjolras's hand is on Grantaire's list of top ten favorite things to do. Maybe even number one. Enjolras has really nice hands.

Enjolras is also giving him the _please listen to me I'm saying something important_ look. Grantaire sighs and brushes his thumb carefully over Enjolras's bruised knuckles.

"I'm still mad at you," he says quietly. "So mad. Watching you do that... It scared me, Enj. Properly scared me, right down to the core." He bites his lip, turns Enjolras's hand over and skates his fingertips across his palm, tracing the grooves through his skin. "Made me wonder how I'd cope if you didn't wake up again."

"You'd be fine," Enjolras murmurs. Grantaire shakes his head. Neither of them speaks for a few moments. When Grantaire looks up again, Enjolras is smiling his sad smile. Grantaire doesn't realise he's crying until he leans over to thumb at the crease under his eye.

"You'd be something close to fine after a while," Enjolras amends, finding Grantaire's other hand and knotting their fingers together loosely. "How's that?"

He's still wrong, but Grantaire lets it go, nods and gives him a soggy smile. "You'll just have to be more careful from now on, I guess."

"I will." It's a lie and they both know it, but they can pretend for now.

Grantaire rubs both hands over his face and takes a deep breath. "Make some room, then, big guy."

It's tricky, what with the tubes everywhere and the narrowness of the bed and Enjolras's frankly ridiculous proportions, but they manage to get settled relatively comfortably. Grantaire buries his face in Enjolras's neck and breathes in alcohol wipes and laundry detergent and soap, cinnamon and apple and home.

"I love you," Enjolras says, soft and deep and soothing, like the rumbling of a train. Grantaire tucks Enjolras’s arm more snugly around him and mumbles it back, his eyelids suddenly far too heavy to keep open.

He sleeps better than he has in five days.


End file.
